Hindsight: Seeing Clearly through the Veil of Deception

By Rhonda Taylor Madge

In Joyce Meyer’s bestselling book, Battlefield of the Mind, she attests that indeed “there is a war which rages in our minds.” Hindsight takes readers on a journey through Rhonda Madge’s tumultuous life to reveal how she fell prey to anxious thoughts that molded her mind through a belief in the whispered lies.

A horrific event at the age of seventeen left Rhonda continually searching for something or someone to fill the dark chasm of her heart. Tears seemed to puddle around her wherever she went. However, she learned to carefully hide herself in a masquerade put on for the outside world, allowing her to project that all was well with her soul even as the slow decay continued from within. Those who find themselves pretending will be drawn to the answers her story presents.

But it was God who worked to lift the veil from Rhonda’s eyes, allowing her to see that, though she thought He was far from her, He remained at arm’s length. Thus a seeker’s interest will be peeked as they read about Rhonda’s exploration of who and what God truly is--a loving, personal God. Those who struggle with life’s hardships will be encouraged and inspired to practice Rhonda’s perseverance.

In a world where sorrow is often heaped upon sorrow, this very real story bares truth that will leave readers filled with hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Nelson
• Release date: Aug 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781400307548

Rhonda Taylor Madge

Rhonda Taylor Madge is thoroughly acquainted with shame from a life colored by an array of anger and grief, by murder and divorce. Her life portrays the unrelenting, ever-pursuing love of Christ, despite countless attempts to run from Him. Today life is fully shared with Troy, her husband of almost thirty years, and their four children. As a speaker and writer, she is committed to sharing with others the message of God’s radical mercy so that all may come to know Him in a personal, intimate way.

Book preview

PREFACE

Most of my life I’d appeared to have everything together. A great career, beautiful clothes, travels abroad, and a man by my side. However, appearances are deceiving. On the inside, I was a festering sore. Difficult experiences left me filled with anger and bitterness, forcing me to pretend to be someone I wasn’t. It began at the age of seventeen, when a horrific tragedy changed the course of my life.

Forty years later now, in hindsight, I realized most of my life has been guided by the fear of exposure and ever-present fear of death. In reality, I had fallen prey to my thoughts and worries, all of which molded my mind into believing such lies.

The stories in this book happened to me. My hope is that, as you read about my life, you will reflect upon your own. The old saying hindsight is twenty-twenty certainly is true. A rearview mirror allows us to see with clarity if we don’t fall into the trap of guilt and shame. I had to learn that lesson well.

The question is, can you learn from your mistakes and not continue to wallow in the same ones? I finally found joy when I learned to like myself just the way I was designed. Besides, pretending wore me out.

Are you tired? Do you feel you need to wear a disguise to masquerade the truth? Do anxious thoughts consume you all the time, making you feel less than adequate?

If that’s you, I invite you to journey down the road that led me from a dark world into the light, as God removed the veil of deception from my eyes.

ONE

And He called a child to Himself…

Matthew 18:2

R honda, bring me Daddy’s jeans from that chair in the corner, Mama called from the kitchen.

Yes, ma’am. I quickly retrieved his pants and took them to her. There was Mama, all of five feet and four inches, her dyed red hair already pinned up in curls for the night, meticulously ironing Daddy’s work clothes. She was so pretty, with a smile that lit up every room she walked into.

Tomorrow is Friday, Rhonda. Daddy will take you to Mama Dora’s in the morning.

Ok, Mama.

What else is important to remember before I send you off to bed? she asked.

Without even a moment’s hesitation I called out, Blessed be a peacemaker! In my five short years, I had heard those words more times than I could count.

Mama smiled and opened her arms wide for a good-night hug, followed up by her familiar tickles. I felt so loved by her.

Now, go give Daddy a good-night kiss and get to bed, Mama said as she gave me one last squeeze.

Daddy could probably hear my small footsteps making their way into the family room. He sat in his comfy favorite chair, resting after his long day. His dark hair was swept to one side, revealing his warm brown eyes beneath. Strong hands, weathered from working outdoors, reached down to pick me up. I could faintly smell the Old Spice cologne on his shirt.

G’night, baby, he whispered.

I threw my little arms around his neck and lingered, not wanting to let go. There was security within these arms. He planted a big kiss on my cheek, patted my bottom, and placed me back on the green-and-white linoleum floor. I happily skipped away to my bedroom and jumped into bed.

**********

It was the spring of 1964 in Bumpus Mills, Tennessee. Bumpus Mills was a quaint, traditional Southern town in which all six hundred people who lived there knew the business of the other 599. I was my parents’ only child, and our small, two-bedroom white-frame home was sufficient. Next door to us was the home of my daddy’s parents, Mama Dora and Papa Chill. Our homes were nestled on an old country road surrounded by farms, quietly grazing farm animals, and a long stretch of tobacco fields.

Early every morning, Daddy would drop me off on Mama Dora’s doorstep on his way to work. Daddy rose early and worked late. He began each day feeding our horses and pigs, then headed to his day job as a truck driver with the highway department. After a full day of driving, he would come home to more work on his tobacco farm. This was his year-round routine.

Mama had worked in a factory since the day she turned fifteen. Her feet hit the floor at five o’clock every morning in order to get us fed, dressed, and out the door. Most days she didn’t arrive home until almost dusk. My parents continued this schedule day after day to provide for our needs. Others might say we were poor, but I felt rich from the love we shared.

**********

I was greeted each morning of the week with a hug from Mama Dora and Papa Chill, along with the aroma of fresh-baked biscuits; a fond routine for sure. Those little biscuits tasted like warm comfort. Mama Dora would wipe the crumbs off my face and pull forward my long, golden curls so they sat ever so perfectly on my shoulders. Being five years old had its advantages, including being treated to an iced RC cola that she kept stocked in her fridge for those hot days late in the afternoon.

She was always in the kitchen, bustling around in her little dress, her stockings held up over her knees with a rubber band so no one could see. I knew, but I was told not to tell because it was a secret. Mama Dora was a petite woman with gray, short curls that covered her head like small, silver spirals. You always knew when she had just returned from the beauty parlor, because you could smell the permanent wave solution when you hugged her. I never minded.

Just as soon as one meal was over, she would start on the next. Of course, it seemed there was always a casserole to bake for church. Papa Chill, on the other hand, loved to be outdoors. Most days he had on overalls, except for Sundays, of course. You couldn’t wear overalls to church. He carried a pocket watch that was securely attached to the side pocket. And if you ever needed a handkerchief, he had one ready. His thinning gray hair was combed way over to the side. This way, it looked like he had more hair than he did, or so he liked to think.

My grandparents were at church whenever the doors opened. Mama and Daddy were really good people, but they never went to church. They always told me that I needed to go, but they took Sunday to prepare for the weekly schedule, which would start all over again the following morning.

Mama would get me up on Sundays, dress me in my little frilly dress, and put on my shiny, black patent-leather shoes. However, one particular Sunday, as she was doing my hair, she found a tick on my head. Oh my, that little thing sure caused a mighty itch. It wasn’t a big deal, though, because it happened a lot on the farm. However, this day would be different.

Mama Dora and Papa Chill pulled up into our driveway and I jumped in to the backseat. After arriving, we walked into church and Mama Dora said, Rhonda, go on now to your Sunday school class.

A picture of Jesus awaited me on a low table, along with a selection of crayons to add my expertise. We got to hear a Bible story and sing songs, too. We five-year-olds made beautiful music. However, we all got quiet when our teacher told us to raise our hands if anyone would like to accept Jesus into their hearts. At that very moment I happened to reach up and scratch my head for the umpteenth time. Suddenly I felt my Sunday school teacher grab my arm and race me down to the altar so that I could be saved. I was not even sure what I was being saved from. Maybe they found out I had taken a piece of gum from Mr. Jim’s store. I began crying and hollering because by now I was scared to death. However, the church congregation began rejoicing because they thought I was filled with the Spirit. I wasn’t.

That experience didn’t bring me to Jesus, but it didn’t stop me from going to church, either. I remember sitting in that small, red-brick building every week as a child. I would listen to the sounds of classic hymns accompanied by the piano. Messages about heaven and hell were followed by an altar call, and all I really understood was that if I didn’t accept Jesus, when I died I would surely go to hell. End of story.

But that was anything but the end of my story.

It wasn’t very long after that ordeal when I had questions about who went to heaven. It started the day Daddy dropped me off at my grandparents’ like most other days. The morning began with breakfast followed by fried chicken for lunch. Papa Chill decided that he would take a little nap, because he felt tired. Mama Dora thought she would surprise him with some hot oatmeal cookies for when he woke up. After he had slept quite a while she told me to go and wake him while she removed the fresh cookies from the oven.

I skipped to the bedroom and jumped up on the bed. Papa Chill, wake up. Mama Dora has a surprise for you! He didn’t move. I ran to the kitchen and told Mama Dora that he wouldn’t wake up. She dropped her dishtowel and raced toward the bedroom. I had never seen my grandmother run so fast. I ran to keep up. What’s wrong, Mama Dora?

I watched my sweet grandmother kneel beside the bed as tears fell from her eyes. It wasn’t long before people started to come in the house. I sat alone on a stool, not sure what to do. A lady I didn’t know brought a wet washcloth and placed it on my forehead. It cooled my head, but did nothing for my troubled heart.

Then my daddy came. I had never seen him cry before. He started beating his head against the wall. Please, Daddy, don’t, I said.

He knelt down beside me and told me that Papa Chill had gone to heaven to be with Jesus.

After that I would think about him especially on Sundays in church. If Papa Chill was in heaven it must be a really good place.

Will we get to see him in heaven someday, Daddy?

I hope so, Honey.

TWO

…Do not be afraid, or panic, or tremble before them.

Deuteronomy 20:3

It wasn’t long after Papa Chill died that I started to go to school at Bumpus Mills Elementary. The bus driver, Mr. Sidney, picked me up from Mama Dora’s every day for school, but instead of the big yellow bus that I had dreamed of, he drove his car. There were six of us kids with Mr. Sidney packed in like a can of sardines.

As the car pulled to a stop in front of the school, Mr. Jobe, the principal, opened the door for us. Mama had told me he was the boss of everybody and I needed to do whatever he said, so I did.

To my surprise, my teacher, Mrs. Louise, was a tiny little lady. If I stood on my tiptoes I was almost as tall as her. There were fourteen kids in my class and we would all graduate from eighth grade together. Well, that is, all except one.

I couldn’t wait to make new friends; being an only child was lonely. There was one little girl who stole my heart the first day. Her name was Karen, but everyone called her Noobie. Her long beautiful curls, fat cheeks, and eyes seemed to see inside my soul. I wanted to be her best friend, even though all the other girls wanted the same thing. I was really sad when I found out that she couldn’t play outside with me.

Why, Noobie? Why can’t you run? She told me her knees hurt really bad.

When I got home I asked Mama, Why can’t Noobie run with me?

She has something called rheumatoid arthritis. Mama seemed to know all about it, but I couldn’t even say it.

Will she get better?

My answer came sooner than expected.

Not long after, Mr. Sidney picked me up to start another day. Our giggles faded in the car as we drew near to the school. All of our classmates were sitting on the steps, crying. I pressed my face against the glass, afraid to get out. Mrs. Louise opened the door and took my hand. Kneeling in front of me, she said, Rhonda, I have some very sad news; Noobie has gone to heaven.

I couldn’t move.

Why were so many of the people I loved going there? I cried myself to sleep that night and the nights following. To make matters worse, I had to go to the place called a funeral home again. It seemed everyone had to go there before they went to heaven. It was the same place I went to see Papa Chill and I hated the thought of going back. It smelled funny. How could some place with so many flowers smell like Mama’s cleaning solution?

**********

Life moved on in Bumpus Mills. Seasons changed, like they do, and years flew by like leaves in the wind. Age ten seemed to be a pivotal growing-up year. I loved the game of basketball more than anything. Hard work taught me that I could accomplish the desires of my heart if I practiced enough. When I wasn’t playing basketball, I was expected to keep the house picked up and start preparations for dinner. Growing up also meant I had to learn about the facts of life. I had rather played basketball.

It was a cold, rainy Saturday morning, and Mama ironed while I ate my cereal. She seemed to think it was the perfect time to tell me about the birds and the bees—as she put it. I sat in silence, not sure what to say, as she explained how babies were made. I thought to myself, Do people really do that? Dropping one cannon ball into my little world somehow braced me for the next.

Rhonda, you are getting old enough to know about these things. As a matter of fact, I might as well go ahead and tell you there isn’t a Santa Claus, either.

Who brings my presents? I asked.

After finding out she and Daddy had enjoyed this little game over the years, I asked, Can I go play now?

I couldn’t figure out which was worse—the fact there wasn’t a Jolly Saint Nick, or sex. I tried to avoid any alone moments for a long time just in case there was something else she felt I needed to know.

Otherwise, life was rather simple, living on the farm. I continued to go to Mama Dora’s every day before and after school. I couldn’t imagine going a day without one of her sweet kisses on my cheek. She always made a loud smack as she planted her lips on me. There wasn’t any question that I was loved, but it became frightening at times to think about someone else in my life dying.

There were times at the end of the day when I stood at Mama Dora’s window, watching for Daddy’s truck to drive up, that I would have horrible thoughts. Fear would creep over my entire body. Tears streamed at the thought of another death.

If something happened to Mama or Daddy, I would be so alone. Who would take care of me?

Within moments, I felt as though my world was coming to an end. Then the second Daddy pulled into the driveway, all was well once again. Out the door I ran. Bye, Mama Dora. I love you.

**********

Life didn’t change much for a couple of years, until 1973. I was leaving Bumpus Mills Elementary School and heading to Stewart County High in Dover. On the first morning of school, I arose early so that Mama could fix my hair before she went to work. I had never felt so pretty, standing in front of the mirror in my new outfit. I paused, looking at myself a little longer than usual to make sure I looked just right. Getting new clothes didn’t happen very often.

I was excited and nervous when the big yellow bus pulled up in front of our little house. The driver wasn’t nearly as friendly as Mr. Sidney. I sat down on the front seat and heard snickers coming from the back of the bus. I ignored them for the most part. Traveling